


Pop the Question

by RazzleDazzle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (an altered version of 3B at least), Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, implied flirting between Derek/OFC but that's just Stiles being a paranoid weenie, post-3B, season four never happened bc yikes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2286060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RazzleDazzle/pseuds/RazzleDazzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the day before Valentine's, and Stiles is being a good son. Derek helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pop the Question

**Author's Note:**

> [Here's what the ring pop sign looks like!](http://static.tumblr.com/suhzrtz/mYKnbpbu7/photo.jpg) I tried to keep Derek and Stiles as in character as possible. Feel free to offer up constructive criticism, etc etc :)

Normally, Stiles ends up at the mall with Lydia. He’s good at holding her bags--great, even, he could be an Olympic bag-holding medalist, if not a champion--and he doesn’t comment on what she picks out unless it’s to compliment how good it looks on her. Combined with his lack of interest in the clothes themselves, he’s pretty much the perfect shopping partner. She only ever loses him around the food court.

 

(And the glass figurine store, but not since they banned him from coming within a ten foot radius at all times last Christmas-- the events of which Stiles still swears was not his fault.)

 

So, normally Stiles ends up at the mall with Lydia, added emphasis on the phrase “ends up.” He doesn’t go voluntarily; it’s something that happens to him under duress. It’s not a conscious decision. There are much more productive ways for Stiles to spend his spare time-- such as curled up in a burrito of blankets on the living room floor wearing boxers and playing XBox Live, or running for his life through abandoned buildings and screeching Scott’s name at embarrassingly high pitches. Maybe if he had the unlimited funds--Hale kind of funds--to play around with, he’d like shopping more. But as it is, he and his dad don’t have much to spare, and even if they did, he wouldn’t spend that money at the mall. He’d go somewhere  _cool_. Like Ikea. Or Arby’s.

 

Love Lydia though he does, going to the mall with her is never the highlight of his week. While her purposefully muted happiness from his company more than makes up for any boredom, and her bags are heavy enough that he can justify skipping the gym, their shopping trips have forced Stiles to rethink his definition of unconditional love on more than one occasion.

 

Seriously, take a look at his closet. His idea of buying clothes is throwing money at the shirt of the day on Qwertee. Stiles Stilinski does not go shopping.

 

Unless it’s the day before Valentine’s and his dad is so swamped with work at the station that he can’t get enough time off to stop and pick up a gift for a certain special someone, apparently. Since Stiles feels guilty for being blatantly involved with the reasons most of the Beacon Hills' police force can't get a day off lately, he volunteers his personal shopping services.

 

For his father’s sake--because he is a halfway-decent son sometimes, damn it--Stiles has made the conscious decision to go to the mall. It’s kind of last-minute, which is unusual for his pops, but the sheriff still doesn’t know what to buy Melissa. He lets Stiles in on his plans purely out of desperation. And because he’d asked. Twenty-six times. For five minutes straight.

 

If anything, Scott should probably have been his first choice? But for some ungodly reason, the Sheriff thinks that would ruin the surprise. Stiles did point out that Scott is actually insanely good at keeping secrets, but that only led to a rather incriminating discussion of what secrets exactly Scott has been keeping, werewolvlihood aside. The answer is a resoundingly vague “not... many?” but whatever. His dad trusts Scott, of course, but he’d rather not have him lying, even by omission, to Melissa on his behalf. Stiles can respect that, even if he thinks it’s a bit illogical.

 

And, speaking of illogical, he’s still shocked that he wrangled Derek into joining him. Though wrangling might not be the proper term to describe the conversation that led them to their current situation, it makes Stiles feel a hell of a lot less weird about it. Sure, he knows that since he finally filled his dad in on the supernatural whos, whats and wheres around town, the Sheriff and Derek have gotten better acquainted… But he didn’t know that Derek liked his dad enough that when he started complaining about how his dad stressing himself out over Valentine’s Day is bad for his blood pressure, Derek would volunteer to help Stiles find something that the Sheriff would approve of, and Melissa would enjoy.

 

It would be understandable if he were faking it, but the easy curve of his smile isn’t riddled with faux-charm like Stiles has seen so many times. It’s soft. Genuine, even. As if he doesn’t actually mind being there, dodging obnoxiously loud small children and even more obnoxiously loud teenagers. That can’t be right, Stiles thinks as they pass a mall rat-infested bench where there is way too much meowing and the stench of smoke isn’t subtle. He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Derek glances his way, and the smile immediately swaps for a furrowed brow. “What?” he asks. His shoulders slump as if talking to Stiles is an actual, physical burden he must bear. Rude.

 

“Nothing!” he says quickly. “Nothing. I just-- nothing.” Derek tilts his head, clearly unappeased, but drops it anyway. Instead of pressing the matter, he looks around at the stores they pass, one hand scratching at his beard.

 

Stiles absently copies the action, nails grazing lightly over his own stubble-less chin. When Derek comes to a stop in front of Radio Shack, Stiles wonders what his daily facial hair upkeep is. Does he shave every day? Twice a day? If he hadn’t seen it before, he’d think there’s no razor alive that could tackle the permanent action hero five o’clock shadow…. Then he realizes that he’s staring again, and immediately looks the other way. He ends up throwing his neck to the left a little too hard and nearly giving himself whiplash in the process. His face contorts helplessly as he cradles his neck with one hand and mouths a silent, ‘ow.’ Because  _ow_.

 

Derek doesn’t notice, but the woman at the cell phone case cart they’re passing does, if her laughter is any indication. Stiles scowls and flips her off when they’re far enough ahead that he doesn’t have to worry about return fire. And if his steps speed up a little, it’s not because he’s scared, alright, it’s because Derek has no concept of a non-strenuous walking speed.

 

After that, he keeps a steady pace with Derek and his hands in his pockets, suggesting gift ideas from each store. When they’d arrived, they decided to do a lap or two of the mall first in order to get a feel for the sales and the merch, so they could make the most informed decision on what to buy. Stiles had proposed the idea, and for once Derek didn’t even question him on it-- like, at all. It would’ve been vaguely offputting if Stiles hadn’t been so thrilled about finally calling the shots without Derek being obnoxious about it for once.

 

It’s startling how much Derek knows about the Sheriff. Considering it’s Derek, it could come off as borderline creepy, but the admiration that lightens his expression and words as he either proposes or rejects a gift idea warms Stiles instead. He likes hearing about his dad in contexts he rarely gets to see him in firsthand, as his son; but he also finds himself getting all sentimental and grateful that he and the McCalls aren’t the only ones around concerned for his well-being. It feels good. It feels like family.

 

Derek’s always been one of the few people Stiles has no reservations about letting his guard down around, because Derek’s one of the few people who has seen Stiles at his very worst, and his most embarrassing. Derek will judge him regardless, and never in a way that’s wholly malicious, so it’s easy to slip into a natural dialogue and just be himself. Stiles has a thing for familiarity. Hanging out with Derek feels comforting in the same way baseball games with his dad or sleeping next to Scott does.

 

It’s going surprisingly well, actually, with fewer personal digs than usual. Stiles suspects that, like Scott, the Sheriff brings out the best in both of them. Family brings out the best in both of them.

 

(After all, Derek’s practically family at this point, anyway, even if it doesn’t feel right calling him that. He doesn’t see Derek as his brother, or anything else. It feels weird to lump him in with Melissa and Scott. Not because Stiles doesn’t care, but-- it just-- it feels off. And kind of perverse, considering Derek’s starring role in his spank bank.)

 

Still, it’s been an hour and they’ve yet to have any mishaps, life-threatening or otherwise, which might be a record for them.

  


At least, until they walk past Hollister.

  


Derek takes one breath through his nose and promptly dissolves into a coughing fit. Once his eyes have stopped watering, he shoots a bleary-eyed glare at the source of offense. They both stare when they see a guy wearing a t-shirt two sizes too small and holding a bottle of some ginger ale-colored spray. The guy makes eye contact and frowns, spritzing one last time directly at them. Derek wheezes again, doubling over and bracing his hands on his knees, while Stiles’ mouth falls open in absolute affront as the guy traipses away, back inside the store.  

 

“What a dick!” Stiles exclaims, gesturing wildly in the direction that the guy disappeared rather than, you know, patting Derek on the back, or otherwise checking to see if he’s okay. By now he knows that Derek prefers not to draw attention to weakness, and he likes a bit of space to regain his bearings when he’s off his A-game. “He totally saw what that stuff did to you, and he did it anyway!” His mouth shuts, corners curving pensively. “Was that his way of telling us we reek?” He ponders in silence for an all too brief moment before leaning into Derek’s personal bubble--so much for respecting his space, but eh, nobody’s perfect--and taking a deep whiff. Which he promptly repeats.

 

“Well it’s definitely not you,” Stiles says, his eyes fluttering closed as he takes another deep breath. “You smell amazing. What the hell?” He grimaces. “I think my mouth is actually watering. The  _fuck_  are you wearing?! Angel jizz?” Equal parts intrigued, aroused and confused, his head ducks in a little closer for one more sniff. “..You think you could get me some?”

 

Derek huffs to cover his amusement and uses one of his absurdly big hands to cover the entirety of Stiles’ face and push him bodily back a foot or two. Stiles doesn’t bother apologizing or complaining, still focused on how entirely edible Derek smells right now. It’s like breathing in how watching gay porn feels. Not that Stiles has done that… often.

 

“That’s not a no,” he wheedles as Derek returns to full height.  

 

“Wasn’t a yes, either,” he mutters back with an indiscreet sniff. But he’s not looking at Stiles, he’s looking around-- probably for the next store to hit.

 

Stiles follows, and he brightens significantly when he sees the massive 60% off sign plastered above Hollister’s porch, where typically hangs a half-naked couple mid-coitus. “Dude,” he says reverently, like the Virgin Mary herself just appeared before him with a platter of fresh cheeseburgers, “we gotta go in.”

 

Derek’s attention snaps back to him, aghast. “What?  _Why_.”

 

“They’re having a sale! Do you think flannels just grow on trees?” he demands, grabbing the fabric of his loose plaid and pulling it out towards Derek for emphasis. Derek doesn’t look convinced, but Stiles hardens his voice and his eyes. He will not miss out on some new shirts just because Derek is a sensitive little priss. “We’re going.”

 

Stiles is already halfway into the store when Derek hesitates at the front steps. Sighing, Stiles pauses. “You can wait outside if you want. I’ll only be, like, five minutes, okay?” Curse his empathy, really. But torturing Derek is only fun up to a point. He doesn’t want to make the guy legitimately uncomfortable, for god’s sake. Especially when his wolfy nose clearly can’t handle the cologne, and that employee was already a massive douche.

 

Derek rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. Just.. I haven’t been in here for a while.”

 

Stiles opens his mouth to make a stupid remark, but catches himself. Empathy. He’s being nice. Yes. So he leaves it at that, letting Derek follow him through the rustic decor to a closet brimming with plaid.

 

Or, at least, that’s where he had been heading. He’s waylaid in the middle of the lounge, mouth open and collecting dust.

 

“Oh man, if we hadn’t destroyed the Nemeton senior year I would think I’m doing that ‘dreaming while awake’ bullshit again,” Stiles says, staring at the sign before him. “Sixty percent off, and free candy? Have we accidentally stumbled into a parallel universe? Can I pinch you?”

 

“If you want to die a slow, painful death, sure.”

 

Stiles’ face scrunches up in offense like he just smelled something rancid, which considering their location, is impossible. “Okay, Cora,” Stiles grumbles, sufficiently put-out. But not so put-out that he can refrain from digging through the bin of free ring pops. Because really.  _Free ring pops_.

 

“Cora would have had you by the balls with her claws out the moment you breached a five-foot radius,” Derek counters somewhere over his shoulder. He’d turn and check, but he thinks he caught sight of a grape and he’s not going to quit until it's his. “She’s already thinking about it, too, because when you come over you eat all of her food.”

 

“Yeah, well you may be surprisingly much less violently-inclined than she is, and you’ve mellowed out since you joined the force, but you still talk like that douchebag from sophomore year who wanted to murderize Lydia based on a  _hunch_.” The elusive grape turns out to be a blue raspberry, so Stiles reluctantly collects his consolation prize and faces Derek. “Leave the gratuitous threats to your sister, they work for her. You don’t wear them half as well as you wear that leather jacket.”

 

“What?” Derek’s forehead does the scrunchy line thing that compels Stiles to poke at it until it goes away.

 

But rather than do something ridiculous and embarrassing like that, Stiles blows out a breath with exaggeratedly puffed cheeks. “Never mind.” He returns to the candy, maybe sorta wondering if anyone would notice if he walked out with the whole thing.

 

Stiles fishes out a classic cherry from the bin, then another. He stuffs a couple more in his pants pocket, and when Derek raises an eyebrow at him, he waves away his judgement as if he were trying to swat a fly. “What? They’re for later!”

 

“Didn’t you read the sign, dumbass? You’re supposed to use them to propose.”

 

“Oh, as if you’re so big on following the rules. Which one of us has been arrested multiple times? Oh, that’s right, you!”

 

“And which one of us set me up to be wrongfully arrested multiple times? I think his name rhymes with ‘files’.”

 

“Ha, ha. So clever.”

 

“Not to mention exonerated.”

 

“Three words, fucktard. Person. Of. Interest.”

 

“I can think of a person I’m interested in,” one of the girls behind the register says not-so-subtly to her co-worker. With a toss of her hair and a gleam in her eyes that says she meant for them to hear her, she slides over to the table where they’re hovering. Stiles is kind of offended by the graceful ease with which she maneuvers herself between them, actually. They were having a conversation.

 

“You guys finding everything okay?” she asks. Her smile is pretty enough that Stiles can subconsciously feel himself beginning to forgive her for interrupting.

 

Still, he’s about to wave her off when Derek pockets his hands and inclines his head toward the basket of ring pops. “Depends. Those really free? No catch?”

 

“Yup, totally free. Take as many as you’d like, we have a bunch of boxes in the back. You’ll be doing us a favor, sparing us a few calories.”

 

Stiles’ dislike rises up again, pretty smile or no. Who says shit like that?

 

“You don’t seem like someone who has to worry about calories,” he interjects doubtfully. Lydia is so much better at this than he is.

 

“Then all those morning yoga sessions are paying off!” she laughs, as if he were complimenting her. Yep. Lydia is definitely so much better at this than he is. Usually he can fall back on his general aura to repell people. This girl is the exception, or she wouldn’t be holding out her hand and introducing herself right now, fuck. “I’m Disha,” she says. It’s annoying. She’s annoying. This whole situation is annoying. He should’ve known the 60% off would come with a catch.

 

But Derek, oh man, Derek. He’s smiling and actually shaking her hand as if people who aren’t parents or school administrators still do shit like that. Stiles’ nose twitches. If he had a list of things he did not want to do the day before Valentines’, at the top would be ‘watch Derek Hale flirt with some hot girl way out of his own league right in front of him.’

 

Forget this. He got his free candy and he will get his cheap shirts--and his dad’s gift for Melissa, whoops, priorities--with or without Derek.

 

☾

 

Shortly after Stiles vanishes to find some shirts, Disha’s called back by her manager--that same asshole from earlier--to help a customer. She trots off with friendly farewell and a reminder to check out her sister’s gym, where she goes to her aforementioned yoga classes; ultimately leaving Derek at a loss.

 

To fill time spent waiting for Stiles, he considers the table boasting the free candy.

 

He never really liked most candies. They’d always get stuck in his teeth, and sometimes it left his fangs feeling sticky if he shifted at all the day after eating some. His impatience to just hurry up and finish the thing already would encourage the instinct to bite down, so he would, leaving his mouth feeling weird for hours, the artificial cherry crunch lingering in the crooks of his canines. His mom always compared their shifted teeth to having braces: you have to be careful what you eat because of them. He’s also never really been a fan of popcorn.

 

But he grew up differently than anyone else in the pack. They didn’t have a lot of the limitations--or a lot of the freedoms--that he’d had. So Derek can’t help but think: Scott would love this. He’d probably like one, if not for himself, at least for Allison, to be sent along with his next letter. While Stiles is chattering away at the cashier--and by the tone of his voice, attempting to make her job a lot more difficult than it should be--he picks one up, balancing the bulky plastic wrapping on the tips of his fingers as he scrutinizes the flavor and the ingredients. He doesn’t think Allison has any allergies to red dye, but--

 

“Woah, do mine eyes deceive me? Is Derek ‘I have abs on abs on abs’ Hale thinking about tossing his Lean Cuisine ways to the wind in favor of hard candy goodness?” Stiles says, suddenly poking his nose over Derek’s shoulder and somehow managing to catch him off guard enough that he jerks.

 

“Power down, Scaredy Wolf. I come in peace,” Stiles laughs, slinging the newly purchased bag of flannels over his shoulder. Derek’s eyebrow cocks, partly because of Stiles’ comments, but mostly because of the half-naked (and very damp?) man printed in sepia on the shopping bag. The thing is practically pornographic. It’s awkward to look at, in public as they are. He remembers Laura used to use Hollister’s and Abercrombie’s bags as book covers for school, but he doesn’t remember any of them being quite so… obscene.

 

“And you call werewolves excessive,” Derek says under his breath.

 

“Hmm?” Stiles looks up from where he’d gone back to poking through the bin of candy, a blue and green swirled ring pop hanging out of his mouth.

 

The dye from the candy has already sloppily stained his lips a sickly blue. Derek thinks about pointing it out, but he doesn’t want to make Stiles self-conscious. Besides, the look on the kid’s face when he realizes he’d been walking around the mall looking like a teal version of the Joker will be priceless; consider it revenge for the panties Stiles had hung from his patrol car’s bumper a couple weeks back. It’s rather tame, as far as return pranks go, but he doesn’t want to put too much effort into it and have Stiles thinking he actually enjoys his antics-- even though he does. Stiles’ disorderly streak doesn’t need that kind of encouragement. It’s his duty as an officer of the law to temper his mischief where he can.

 

(And no, Derek still hasn’t figured out the appropriate way to ask, “Where the  _hell_  did you get a lace thong?”)

 

Derek sighs, adopting his usual tone of resignation. “I don’t eat Lean Cuisine, there’s enough sodium in one meal to give an  _elephant_  high blood pressure. Having the power to heal doesn’t mean that I’m going to take risks with my health just because I can.”

 

“As if that’s ever stopped you before,” Stiles says. “I’ve seen you dive headlong into mass gunfire. Multiple times. But whatever. My point stands: the cuisine you do eat can totally be described as lean. I’m still right.”

 

“Yes, Stiles, you’re always right.”

 

Stiles peers at him. “Was that sarcasm?”

 

Somehow a streak of blue has made it up by one of his eyebrows. It’s all Derek can do not to smirk. “Oh no, what gave me away.”

 

“I can never decide if being unable to tell when you’re joking means your sense of irony is really, really good, or really, really bad.”

 

“And here I thought you knew everything.”

 

“Shut. Up,” Stiles says, dragging out the vowels. He thrusts his shopping bag at Derek, who blinks and takes it with both hands as Stiles digs into his pocket for his candy’s discarded wrapper. By the time he finds it and sets it down on the table next to him, Derek is narrowing his eyes at the bag up close, judgment radiating from him in waves.

 

Stiles whacks him lightly on the shoulder and snatches the bag back. “Wipe that look off your face, Hale. You and I both know you’re a thousand times more cut than any of the dudes they have in these stupid ads. You could be the epitome of these stupid ads. Actually, now that I think of it, let’s get you out of here before they offer you a job and my self-esteem has to take its second blow of the day.”

 

“Second, huh? What was the first?”

 

Stiles ignores him, instead looking pensively at the bin of ring pops. “You think seven is too many?” he wonders aloud.

 

Rubbing at his temple and trying not to count down the seconds until they can get out of the store, Derek assures him: “Probably no worse than eight.”

 

“Hmm? And what happened to ‘you’re supposed to use them to propose, Stiles! Stop desecrating the construct of commercialized love,’” Stiles mocks, his voice sounding more like Ben Stein’s than Derek’s. He slips the ring pop back into his mouth, grinning around it triumphantly. It makes Derek want to wipe that self-satisfied look right off his face.

 

Quicker than Stiles can stop him, he hooks a finger around the ring and tugs, popping the candy out of Stiles’ mouth. Stiles looks at him with wide eyes, his lips still curved like they’re stretched around the ring pop, and still that ridiculous shade of blue.

 

Getting down on one knee, Derek smiles and holds the ring aloft, his free hand wrapping around Stiles’, bringing it close so that it’s pressed to his chest, over his heart. “Stiles Stilinski,” he starts quietly, and Stiles’ eyes bug out even further. If he still had the lollipop in his mouth, he’d be choking on it.

 

“Would you do me the honor of making the happiest man on this earth…” Stiles makes a gerbil-esque squeaking sound.

 

“...And say you’ll stop eating all of the fucking string cheese in my apartment? It’s really starting to piss Cora off.”

 

It takes Stiles a minute, but Derek can read the moment his words register. Then he’s yanking his hand back and snatching at his stolen ring pop, pure disgruntlement on his face. “Shut the fuck up, dickweed. Cora doesn’t even like string cheese. If she’s complaining, it’s just to be difficult. And for the record? When you’re proposing to someone, it  _doesn’t count_  if the ring you’re using belongs to them in the first place.”

 

“I’ll remember that for next time,” Derek says.

 

“Next time? Oh ho ho, no way, buddy. There isn’t gonna be a next time,” Stiles snaps, lip curling as he shoves the now desecrated ring pop back into its wrapper, and into his pocket.  

 

Derek smiles down at the ground and bumps their shoulders together. “Maybe.”

 

They’re walking out of the store, but Stiles brushes his hand against Derek’s wrist to get him to pause. “Maybe?” he asks. The hitch in his breath is hesitant, like he’s prepared for the worst. But with Derek, he thinks, maybe he doesn’t need to.

 

Derek stops at Stiles’ touch, looking up from the floor to his face. Whatever he sees there strengthens his resolve. “Yeah,” Derek says after a minute. “Next time.”

 

Stiles grins. “Next time,” he agrees.

 

☾

 

The next day, fucking Valentine’s Day, Derek sleeps in and wakes up slowly. He has a late shift at the station, so he can afford to be a little lazy. He’s not even fully awake yet by the time he stumbles into the kitchen, yawning and scratching at the waistband of his low-slung sweatpants. Or at least, that’s the excuse he uses for not realizing that someone had already been there while he’d been asleep-- and that they’d left something behind.

 

On the counter, there’s a sizeable Costco package of string cheese. Taped to it is a note, taped to a ring pop. The note starts out painstakingly written, but as it progresses gets sloppier and sloppier with a bunch of last minute additions. For some ungodly reason, Derek finds it disgustingly charming.

 

> “Derek,
> 
>  
> 
> I would say I’m sorry for eating all of your string cheese, but since I’m not, I hope this will make up for it. If it doesn’t, I’d be honored to take you out to dinner tonight instead.
> 
>  
> 
> Sincerely yours,
> 
>  
> 
> Stiles
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. You’re an asshole for letting me walk around the mall like a freaking smurf yesterday.
> 
>  
> 
> P.S.S. THIS is how you romantically ask someone to do something. Take notes.
> 
>  
> 
> P.S.S.S. For next time :)
> 
>  
> 
> P.S.S.S.S. Jerk.”

 

Derek grabs his phone, for the moment skipping over a text from the Sheriff, probably thanking him for helping Stiles find Melissa's gift yesterday. He hopes she likes the necklace they picked out, but right now he has other things on his mind. Texting with one hand, he hangs up the note on the fridge with the other, using Stiles’ favorite of the googly-eyed magnets Kira and Cora had gotten him last Christmas as a joke.

 

> [SMS; 12:17 PM] Come over tonight at seven, I’m going to cook for you.
> 
>  
> 
> [SMS; 12:17 PM] You can take me out to dinner, though.
> 
>  
> 
> [SMS; 12:18 PM] Next time.
> 
>  


End file.
